Chapter 22
RENZO
The paddock smells like fuel, rubber, and money.
It always does, but today it’s sharper. Louder. Like the place knows we’re hyped up to the max. The Netherlands Grand Prix at Zandvoort is usually the one venue you can remain a little low key.
Not this weekend.
The crowd scream every time my face – or Dante’s, because less than 0.1 per cent of them can tell us apart – appears on the camera. And those cameras? They’re everywhere. They’re especially rabid since my accident and my ‘miraculous’ recovery. Our schedules are public down to the minute.
And that’s the thing that makes me super fucking angsty. Anyone with half a brain and a grudge knows exactly where we are.
So we triple security.
Black jackets where team polos should be.
Earpieces under hair. Eyes that never stop moving.
Cesare runs the perimeter with the quiet fury of a man daring the world to try something.
Rafa shadows Sofiya like he’s welded to her spine.
Dante’s already strapped into the sister Furia car across the paddock, helmet on, visor down, ready to burn asphalt and whatever’s left of his patience.
I stand in my trailer and stare at the suit hanging on the hook.
Race mode should be automatic by now. Focus. Numbers. Lines. Grip.
Instead, my mind keeps drifting to Fallbrook. To walls thick enough to stop a missile. To dogs and men and cameras layered on cameras. To the idea that maybe I should have left Giada there.
The thought needles me.
She steps into the trailer like she belongs here, because she does now. My girl. My problem. My everything. She looks calm, which tells me she’s clocked my mood and decided not to poke it yet.
‘You’re thinking too loud,’ she says softly.
I don’t answer.
The door opens again and Narciso Mancinelli walks in like he owns the air.
‘I’m here to say hello to my sister,’ he says, eyes flicking to Giada before settling on me. ‘And to remind you that if anything happens to her—’
I move before I think.
Cesare’s hand comes up fast, blocking my chest. ‘Easy.’
Narciso smirks. ‘You think a helmet makes you untouchable, Salvatore? Take it off and let’s go.’
‘You think running your mouth makes you useful?’ I snap.
Giada steps between us without fear. That’s what kills me and makes me fucking love her more. ‘Narciso. Stop.’
He softens a fraction for her. Then his eyes cut to me again. ‘You’re fast,’ he says. ‘But speed doesn’t mean shit if you can’t protect what’s standing next to you.’
I point to the door. ‘Get the fuck out,’ I growl.
He does. Not before glaring at everyone, including Bibi, on the way out like he’s filing it away for later.
The door slams.
My pulse is too high. My hands shake with the need to hit something.
Giada closes the space between us and puts her palms flat on my chest. ‘Look at me.’
I don’t want to. I do anyway.
‘You’re not leaving me,’ she says. ‘And you’re not losing your head.’
‘I shouldn’t have brought you,’ I say. The truth tastes bitter. ‘Fallbrook is a fortress. You would’ve been safer there.’
She looks at the other people in the room. Cesare stares back, but after a minute he jerks his head and everyone vacates, leaving us alone. ‘This is your life,’ she says, and it really is as simple as that. ‘I won’t be locked away while you race into danger.’
I huff out a breath. ‘You shouldn’t have to be here.’
She smiles faintly. ‘I want to be. Where you are is exactly where I belong.’
She reaches up, fingers hooking into the collar of my race suit, and pulls me down just enough to kiss me. Slow. Grounding. Her mouth knows exactly how to steady me.
She kisses me again. Deeper this time. A reminder and a promise.
I rest my forehead against hers. ‘I need my head clear.’
‘You have it,’ she says. ‘Go win. Come back to me.’
I kiss her once more, hard enough to leave us both breathless.
Then I grab my helmet and step out. My face pops up on another screen and the crowd go mental. I ignore every single reporter trying to get my attention.
The engine noise swells outside. The world narrows.
I step out into it knowing one thing for sure.
I’m not running from this.
I’m driving straight through making Giada safe, mine in every way, even if I have to drive through hell and the devil himself to make it happen.
* * *
Giada
The noise of engines screaming hits first.
The crowd is a living thing, pulsing and hungry, and I blink at the reality of it, standing at the edge of the paddock with Sofiya, my hands clasped tight enough to hurt, eyes locked on the screens.
Renzo is calm in the car. I can see it even through the helmet, the way he always settles when it matters. Focused. Ruthless. Alive.
Lap after lap, the tension winds tighter.
Narciso pushes him hard, overtaking him twice. But Renzo doesn’t let that slide. He comes back hard, harder, and I watch with my heart in my throat as they go toe-to-toe into the corner at the ridiculously steep banking at Arie Luyendykbocht.
I recognise his style immediately – aggressive, unforgiving, like he’s trying to prove something to the world and himself. Dante isn’t far behind, clean and precise, a predator who doesn’t waste motion.
When the final lap starts, my heart is in my throat.
Renzo takes the corner like he owns it. And when the checkered flag drops, he wins by more than seven seconds.
A disgruntled Narciso crosses second with Dante third.
The sound that erupts is deafening. I don’t hear anything else until Renzo is out of the car, helmet off, sweat-damp hair, eyes already searching.
When he finds me waiting at the barrier, he doesn’t hesitate.
He crosses the space between us in long strides, ignores the cameras, the officials, the noise. He scoops me up in his arms and kisses me hard, unapologetic, claiming me in front of the world.
Gasps ripple. Phones fly up. Somewhere, hearts break.
I don’t care.
For one perfect second, it’s just us, then the officials pull him away for his post-race procedures.
Rafa’s hand lands lightly on my shoulder. ‘Eyes on you now,’ he mutters, adding as he walks away, ‘Careful, some of the fans can be fucking nuts.’
I barely have time to process it before someone brushes past me, close enough that I flinch. A hand presses something cold into my palm.
My jaw drops when I see what it is. A burner phone.
By the time I spin around, they’re gone. Melted into the crowd.
My stomach drops as I stare at the phone like it might explode. I jump when it buzzes. Chest thumping like a wild animal, I answer.
The line clicks, then an expelled breath. ‘Not going to greet me?’ my father says. Matteo Mancinelli’s voice is thinner than I remember. Meaner. ‘I guess you’ve made your choice. Just like your—’ He stops, then corrects himself with a sneer. ‘Just like them.’
My chest tightens. ‘Papa,’ I whisper. ‘Is that really what you’re going to say to me after six years?’
Silence. Then a scoff.
‘You stand there parading yourself with the Salvatores,’ he spits. ‘Smiling for cameras like you belong. Traditrice. You’ve always wanted their world.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, too fast. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Do I?’ he snaps. ‘Because it looks like you’ve chosen your side. Just like your sisters.’
Something inside me hardens. I’m done begging.
‘Did you know?’ I ask quietly. ‘Did you know what Bonafacio was going to do to Isabella Salvatore?’
The silence this time is longer.
My heart pounds. ‘Papa,’ I push. ‘Did you approve it?’
A breath. Not denial.
Before he can answer, there’s a noise behind him a scuffle. ‘Giada, ascolta – listen to me.’ His voice is tight, rushed and panicked. ‘You need to do what Vittore wants.’
‘What?’ I breathe.
‘He’s in charge now,’ Matteo blurts. ‘Head of the family. He’s already decided. You need to obey him, figlia mia, or he’ll kill me. Capisci? He’ll kill me.’
Cold floods my veins. ‘Papa, what are you saying?’ I demand. ‘Papa—’
The line crackles.
‘Papa?’ I say louder. ‘Papa, are you there?’
Nothing.
‘Papa?’ My voice breaks. ‘Rispondi. Papa?’
The call drops.
The phone slips from my hand. I barely feel it hit the ground. My knees give out and I fold in on myself, breath tearing out of my chest in ugly, broken sobs. The world tilts. Noise rushes in and out like I’m underwater.
Strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.
Renzo.
He’s there like he always is. Solid. Furious. One look at my face and something dangerous lights behind his eyes.
‘What did he say to you?’ he demands.
I can’t speak. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I just shake my head, tears blinding me.
He doesn’t push. He just holds me, one hand firm at my back, the other cradling my head, murmuring low, vicious Sicilian curses under his breath. Figlio di puttana. Bastardi.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. My breathing finally evens out enough for words to claw their way free.
‘He called me a traitor,’ I whisper.
Renzo goes completely still.
‘And?’ he prompts gently, deadly calm.
I swallow hard. ‘I asked him if he knew about Isabella. About Bonafacio. He didn’t say no.’
Renzo’s jaw locks.
‘He said Vittore’s in charge now. That I have to do what he wants or he’ll kill him.’
Renzo’s face freezes over. All warmth gone. All mercy burned out.
‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Enough.’
He pulls me into his chest, holding me so tight I can feel his heart slamming against my cheek.
‘We’re done waiting,’ he says into my hair. ‘We’re going to St Petersburg.’
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand. The tears stop as fast as they started. ‘Okay, but I’m coming too,’ I say.
He stiffens. ‘Giada—’
I shake my head, cutting him off before he can finish what I know he’s going to say. ‘This started with me,’ I say, steady now. ‘It ends with me.’
For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then he nods. Once.
Rafa appears at our side, already moving. ‘Jet’s ready. Go do your podium shit then we head out.’
Cesare grins, feral. Dante cracks his neck as Sofiya slips her hand into Rafa’s.